


Touch

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-11
Updated: 2005-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something has changed, but what? Hutch gets analytical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta reader Padawan Ula Luva.

Even as a small child, Kenneth Hutchinson had been a keen observer of details and nuances that tended to escape the notice of others, and was especially attentive when it came to people's voices and emotive expressions. The talent later proved to be quite useful in ensuring his safety and that of his partner in their careers as police officers. Not surprising, since the skill had originated from a similar need.

His abilities being what they were, it bothered him somewhat that he had not successfully marked when a particular change had first taken place. A week ago? A month? Surely he would have noticed it sooner. If it even _was_ a change—the difference was subtle; fleeting and sporadic the events he could analyze to determine if, in truth, the normal pattern had been altered.

If it had, the circumstances that inspired the atypical incidences were as yet undefined. But they all occurred within a single mode of expression—touch. That made the act harder to scrutinize, not being visual or aural in nature. He was much better at recording and analyzing those types of cues. Touch, in general, was less familiar to him, anyway, except coming from Starsky; and Starsky, himself, was the subject of Hutch's study.

Something had changed in the way Starsky touched him.

Not every time, and not in a clear, easily discernable way. The only data Hutch had at present was vague, subjective. He was uncomfortable basing any conclusions on such questionable information. He would have to gather more substantive intelligence.

Hutch started with a baseline for comparison. There—a squeeze on the shoulder as they stood over the body of a very young victim. The comforting touch was familiar, the shape of the grip on him a casual spread of fingers. The squeeze was light, brief. The hand was removed shortly after making contact.

Nothing he hadn't felt a hundred times, its only remarkable quality was that Starsky did it at all. Before Starsky, no one touched him like that.

Later, after breaking the news to the victim's parents, Hutch's shoulders were stiff with tension as they exited the building. Suddenly, an arm slung around his neck in a momentary half- embrace. Again, brief; the same amount of pressure applied as the shoulder squeeze. As the arm left him, he felt the trailing contact of fingers on the back of his shirt, gone almost before he noticed it. Compassionate, but lacking the difference he was looking for.

"Let's go to Huggy's," Starsky said, and Hutch nodded his agreement. Starsky's shoulder bumped his as they went back to the car.

ooOoo

At the Pits, they sat side-by-side in their usual booth, legs brushing almost constantly. Hutch didn't attempt to keep count or dissect each incident. They were too frequent and of the same type. But the very repetitiveness of the occurrence was duly noted.

Starsky made a humorous comment about the percentage of horsemeat content in his burger, and Hutch found himself laughing in spite of the heavy mood. A hand closed on his thigh, exerting pressure and then lingering before it was withdrawn. All of Hutch's senses came to immediate alert. He'd felt it. The Touch. He took a sip of his beer and replayed it in his mind. The hand had slipped up and down once before releasing. Four fingers had dug into his inner thigh a little. Was it the location? No. Starsky had put his hand there before, but usually it was a pat or two, the contact fleeting. This was more like an almost-sensual rub.

It was real. The difference was quantifiable.

"What's so fascinating about your beer, Blondie?" Starsky asked, his tone indulgent.

Hutch looked up to meet the smiling eyes. He shrugged and lifted the mug to his lips. Satisfied that he had gathered his first, real proof, he relaxed against the back of the booth and started paying closer attention to the conversation Starsky and Huggy were having. Apparently, keeping your mice from overeating so they would be fit enough to race was a tricky endeavor. Hutch suggested the application of tiny muzzles. Starsky laughed loud and long, and when Huggy made a snide rejoinder, Starsky reached over to slap Huggy on the back.

Hutch registered the gesture. Slap, slap. Two quick ones, and then Starsky's arm dropped, no evidence of dallying. Hutch felt excited by the possibility of having a mathematical formula to apply in his analyses. Perhaps pressure plus time over position; the lower the location of the touch, the lower the dividend, and the higher the index. The higher, briefer touches would be of a much lower quotient than the lingering, lower touches. He mentally assigned values to head, shoulder, back, belly, and legs. He would start timing the touches and see if his formula worked.

Starsky dropped him at home and Hutch mulled over his conclusions as he prepared for bed. One incident could not be construed as empirical proof. He would need further examples of the Touch. But how to trigger it to recur? What had been the impetus? Hutch thought back to the moment before the Touch had occurred. He had been distracted by his musings. Starsky had said something unexpected. Hutch had been surprised into laughter. He had smiled at his friend....

That, then, would be the next thing to try. Only it had to be a genuine stimulus or the experiment would be meaningless. He would wait for the proper moment, and see if his theory had any validity.

ooOoo

The next day offered no such opportunities. The work of catching a twisted murderer was dirty, soul-destroying labor. The mind of the killer was a dark place they visited reluctantly, but by necessity. By dint of poring over tiny clues, they identified the assailant. They located his apartment and were appalled by the filth tacked onto his walls. Young ones, naked, their eyes lost wells of hopelessness.

Hutch tightly contained his own emotions while Starsky railed at the ceiling, the stupefied apartment manager, the radiator, and his own partner. Hutch reached out and held Starsky's upper arm, trying to transmit his empathy. His hand lingered there a long time while Starsky gathered himself. Hutch noted absently that the factor of time wasn't necessarily pertinent in this case. He left his hand there as long as he felt Starsky needed it.

Later, in the Torino, Starsky's arm sneaked along the back of the seat and two fingers set themselves in the hair on the nape of Hutch's neck. Hutch's spine tingled as he identified the Touch. Hutch hadn't been smiling or laughing. Neither of them had the heart for either. But there was no denying the sensual nature of the contact. The fingers rubbed lightly, and Hutch shivered a little.

Hutch recorded his own response, and also added to his formula a variable for skin-to-skin contact. A multiplier, definitely. He looked over at Starsky, the flesh of his neck moving under the fingers. Starsky appeared relaxed, unconscious of his actions. Hutch didn't doubt he was. The difference was only being conveyed on the one channel; he had detected no accompanying alteration in vocal tone or facial expression. It was almost as if Starsky's subconscious were using this one outlet to impart information. Except now Hutch was conscious of it. His analysis was complete, his conclusion solid.

The question next became, what to do with his new knowledge?

ooOoo

R&I had nothing more for them on their killer, Morton; the guy had a clean record with the exception of one Peeping Tom report. No charges had been pressed. The partners stopped by the Pits to see if Huggy could get them a lead on his haunts. Huggy went off to make some calls, and they decided to have some lunch while they were there. They took the booth; Starsky looked at him oddly when Hutch took the seat opposite. But the time had passed for collecting data. Hutch now had to decide how he felt about his conclusions, and having Starsky in proximity was bound to skew his reasoning.

He looked into his friend's eyes as they talked. Discussing the case would have been detrimental to their appetites, so, instead Starsky regaled him with a tall tale about a giant albino alligator living in the New York City sewers. He gestured avidly as he spoke; Hutch watched the animated, familiar face and felt something shift subtly within his chest, as if someone had reached in and nudged his heart into a slightly more accommodating position. It felt warmer in there, too, like they had also had turned up his thermostat a notch. It surprised him more than a little. Where had these feelings been hiding? Behind the friendship? Waiting all this time for the brush of a hand to pull back the curtain?

His eyes traveled over Starsky's face, glancing over the angled planes of his cheeks, the quirked lips and the strong jaw, to slip down to the hollow of his throat. Starsky lifted his glass to drink; Hutch watched as swallowing worked the muscles of his neck. Hutch swallowed, himself. Faithfully, he acknowledged in his mental notes that his dick was semi-hard, and threatening next to stand as tent-pole for the fabric of his pants. Hutch looked away.

He could, he supposed, try to delve deeper into his reactions, try to determine that they were consistent, repeatable; true markers of feelings that had progressed, in the span of a day, beyond the desire for mere friendship. But he didn't think it was necessary. Down deep, where thought met instinct, this new desire rang as true as tapped crystal.

He wanted Starsky.

Huggy came back to slouch down in the booth next to Hutch, his ridiculously lanky frame folding like an ungainly bird's. He had a small hook on their friend, the murderer. Apparently Morton liked visiting a particular, seedy porn shop that was known, in some circles, to carry materials that weren't strictly on the up-and-up. Supposedly the guy practically lived there, visiting almost daily. Huggy gave them the address and then complained when Hutch all but shoved him out of the booth in his haste to get going.

"Don't tell Morris I sent you, dig?" Huggy drawled at their backs. They both waved their understanding and exited the Pits.

"You take the back, Hutch," Starsky said in the car. "You're a little too…Captain America to go unnoticed in this place." Starsky's half-grin held an element of steel. They were both anxious to get this guy. They would risk no screw-ups.

So Hutch waited, hands in his pockets, by the garbage bin behind Morris's Adult Goods. After a while he dug an old milk crate from the pile of boxes beside the bin and sat down with a newspaper, pretending to read.

Hours passed. He spent the time testing the boundaries of his newly discovered feelings. When he thought of Starsky beside him on a stakeout, reading to him from the funnies, he felt nothing more than his usual, deep affection. When he thought of the Touch Starsky had given him with two fingers to the back of his neck, his whole body shuddered into aching hardness within moments. Two fingers, nothing more than that. If that was all it took, he balked at thinking what Starsky's hands on his naked body would do to him. He found he had to stand and pace about a little, adjusting himself discreetly with a hand in his pocket.

Suddenly, without warning, the back door was banged open by a charging body. Hutch barely had time to register the suspect and start to reach for his gun when the man lifted his own weapon and fired without hesitation directly at him.

He was hit. With a sense of unreality, he perceived the ground rushing to meet him as he fell to his right, hand extended to break the impact. He heard Starsky's dismayed shout as he hurtled outside. Starsky's voice gave warning, and Hutch heard the firing of the Beretta, loud and vicious-sounding. Two reports. Then darkness dropped down on Hutch, a pall of heavy black velvet.

ooOoo

He rose from the dark like a sailor from the deep, gurgling and gasping for air that refused to enter his drowning lungs. A hand was in his, and whispered words carried an urgent request for him to 'hold on.' But Hutch _was_ holding on; his fingers were closed on the warm hand. He pried open his lids to try to relate this important point, but all he saw was a blur of brown and white. He blinked a few times, and then saw clearly the tortured blue of his partner's eyes. Hutch tried to speak, but apparently his body had other uses for the scant oxygen in his lungs. He tried to say it with his eyes, but the ones staring into his still looked panicked. So he squeezed hard on the hand, then again. A small crinkle appeared, denoting understanding, and Starsky nodded, reinforcing it. Hutch closed his eyes and the wail of the siren chased him back into the shadows.

ooOoo

When next Hutch became aware, a voice was speaking to him in low, pained tones. Something about burritos, and promises of good restaurant food. He didn't pay much attention to the words, because he was more focused on the touches he was feeling; along his bare, left arm, a hand was smoothing up and down, repeatedly, and he could still feel his hand held within another, as if it had never been released. But Hutch knew that was impossible; more awake, now, he realized he was in a hospital bed, and the floaty feeling of good, high-powered painkillers was thrumming within him. It scared him a little; too reminiscent of another time, another drug. But the persistent, rabid ache in his right chest convinced him of the necessity.

He opened his eyes, and immediately the rubbing hand moved to his shoulder.

"Hutch? You with me, buddy?" Starsky sounded relieved beyond measure.

Hutch made a partially successful noise in the affirmative. That's when he noticed there was a tube in his nose. He scrunched up his face, feeling it rub against his septum in a not-quite-comfortable way. Oxygen. Remembering the drowning sensation of earlier, he was inclined to accept the nasal intruder.

"You really scared me, partner. I'm so...so goddamn sorry, Hutch," Starsky squeezed his hand, and used his other to wipe some suspect moisture from his eyes. "I don't know how the guy made me, but he rabbitted outta there like the Devil tipped him off. I had no chance to warn you—"

Hutch made another sound, testing out his vocal capabilities, but his throat was impossibly dry. He squeezed Starsky's hand, instead, and smiled at Starsky's grateful look. Then Starsky did something surprising. He leaned over and rested his forehead on Hutch's hand.

Starsky mumbled something too quiet to hear before raising himself up again. Hutch looked at him and, without forethought, pulled his hand away and, noting distantly the slight trembling, lifted it to touch Starsky's cheek.

Starsky stared at him, obviously nonplused. Hutch realized that this was the first time he had Touched Starsky; so, of course, his friend didn't recognize it. Hutch would have to make it more obvious. He let his hand curve against the warm cheek, and then rubbed his thumb gently across Starsky's eyebrow before drifting his hand down to draw his fingers across Starsky's lips.

The eyes gazing into his own widened appreciably. For an excruciatingly long time they remained fixed on him, until, finally, Hutch got tired of waiting for a response. He moved his hand again, this time extending his arm fully to cup the back of Starsky's head and tug it toward him. He marked the subtle resistance, and then the gradual acquiescence. Still staring, Starsky allowed his head to be lowered until their faces were mere millimeters apart.

Hutch tilted his head.

Their lips touched.

 _Finis._

  
February, 2005  
San Francisco, CA

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: today's assignment: Hutch doesn't get to speak. Boy talks too much, anyway.


End file.
